


Curtain Calls

by NuMo



Series: Curtains And Masks [7]
Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: AU, Cut Scenes, Established Relationship, F/F, Holodeck Silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To celebrate the fact that 'Curtains and Masks' passed 500 hits today (sweet pantheon of available deities, it's unbelievable...!), here's a few scenes that landed on the cutting room floor, because really, the stories just grew and grew and I had to tame them <i>somehow</i>...</p><hr/><p>Outtakes of the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/18811">"Curtains and Masks"</a> Series. I strongly suggest you read the other instalments first.</p><p>I don't own Star Trek nor anything connected with it, but I do own my own characters. I'm not making any profit, although I hope to reap some feedback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fun with cars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set at the very beginning of "Flight", after Marie's and Ellie's first dinner in the mess hall.

“So, what kind of car were you thinking of?” Tom asks me when we get closer to the holodeck. His first comment upon leaving the mess hall was on my footwear, of all things, slender black sneakers with white soles; he loved them. Then we discussed Starfleet standard issue footwear, all very solemn, extremely hardy, but comfortable, too – figures, doesn’t it? Food and boots – top reasons for mutiny when they’re bad, or so I’ve heard. At least they have the latter going for them, here on _Voyager_. Food… well. _I_ found the goulash quite palatable, but then again, I’m easily satisfied. Ellie had pushed it around on her plate, but she’d liked the potatoes, and she’s a serious junkie for them, so that was alright. 

“Depends on where we’re going. If you want speed, we should take an autobahn-” I pause and look for the spark of recognition. Kathryn didn’t have it – he does. He grins. 

“Ooooh yes,” he answers, “I always wanted to try those.”

“Then we should take cars designed for them,” I continue my thought. “Sports cars, manual gear change, you know.” That spark becomes a gleam, and Ellie sighs behind us.

“You won’t stop her once she’s in one of those,” she elaborates. 

“Oh, I bet I can keep up,” he grins, and I keep my face carefully neutral. I have no idea how good a driver he is. I only know how good a driver I am. And with these, uh, ‘safety protocols’ in place… I keep my grin on the inside. Ellie knows, nevertheless, but Tom doesn’t listen to her second sigh.

We divide up for the ride; Kathryn and Ellie come with me, Tom and B’Elanna take the second car. The cars we end up in are Shelby Mustangs both, built in ’67, at least that’s what Tom says. They’re his choice, although I do approve – but I get to choose our track, so I pretend to grumble a bit about the cars, just for show. At least they offer a modicum of space for passengers in the back seats. Still, we’re in stitches about vintage interior, Ellie especially so. 

I crow when I turn the key and the engine answers with a hoarse roar. Oh, yes. Over four hundred horses; God, but will you listen to this… symphony? Tom promptly stalls the engine on the first try, but, truth to tell, so do I. Heavens, but this baby has oomph. I’m the first off the parking lot, though, and the first to reach the autobahn, and, flooring the pedal ruthlessly, I don’t cede that position to Tom no matter how hard he tries. He seems loath to subject the car to more than five thousand revs, but that’s how you have to go with four speed gearboxes. And I know my way around German motorways, and the one I’ve chosen is grand for this. I weave around the other traffic recklessly, trying to use the cars to keep Tom at bay (works, too. Then again, how would he know the madness that is German highway driving?), trying to use all three lanes for the perfect racing line. I whoop with joy again as hills and curves press us into the seats and echo with the tortured screams of our engines. 

“Home field advantage,” I grin cheekily when Tom shakes my hand, in the end. True, too. I’ve been on this particular stretch of this particular autobahn often enough to know just how fast I can go in any curve, on any hill. Hell, I grew up thirty kilometers from here. B’Elanna’s eyes are dangerous, belying the whiteness around her nose – she surely doesn’t like to come second. Kathryn looks wildly excited, and a little appalled at my style of driving, so different from what she’d seen me do in Italy. Ellie, used to my antics if not to the extent I can take them to in a car like this, simply rolls her eyes when Tom asks for a rematch. 

“Different car, different route?” he suggests, and I grin again. 

“And we’ll switch now; your call for the route, mine for the cars we’ll take,” I offer with a wide, innocent grin. I’m transparent enough to Ellie that she’s got to turn away to hide her laugh, and even Tom reads my eyes well enough to frown, but nods, nevertheless. 

“Something interesting, Tom. I don’t want to see only trees skimming past this time,” B’Elanna calls out.

“Anything to make my wife happy,” he concedes, thinks for a moment, and calls out, “Computer – La Ciotat, France, Route des Crêtes, parking lot just outside city limits. Oh, and make it… late May,” he adds with a flourish.

The computer gives the happy chirp again, and deposits us on a big, dustily white square, framed by olive trees and pine trees and huge furze bushes, blooming bright yellow. Interesting, indeed. Tom explains that he’s flown over this area when he was stationed in Marseille to train as a pilot, and that he’d always wanted to have a go on this road in a car. I grin. Perfect. Couldn’t be more perfect if I’d been the one to choose. 

“Computer,” I call, lazily, trying to keep my laughter from bubbling, “gives us… two 1984 Citroen 2CV6, please, one in… oh, bleu célèste, the other in grey Charleston.”

B’Elanna whoops when the cars appear, and Tom swears profusely. Ellie rolls her eyes again, and Kathryn? Kathryn is captivated. 

I walk around both cars delightedly, opening each front door to undo the clasps that hold the roof, rolling both roofs open, fixing them at the back in practiced movements. Oh, the sound of a 2CV door swinging shut. The feel of the springs giving way. The smell of the upholstery – perfect, perfect, perfect. This holodeck is amazing. Who’d have thought?

“I’ve seen these in museums – you’ve _got_ to be joking.” Tom Paris sounds miffed. 

“Oh, not at all. B’Elanna wanted ‘interesting’. It isn’t always speed that’s interesting, you know. Tell you what,” I grin at him, feeling mighty shark, “I’ll even wait until you’ve figured out the gear arrangement.”

“Wha-” he dips his head to take a look at the gearstick coming out of the dashboard. “Holy cow.” B’Elanna, meanwhile, has watched me operate the door, repeats the motion easily, and bouncingly takes up residence in the Charleston’s front passenger seat. 

“It’s comfy,” she tells her husband. “Get your ass inside, flyboy; you’ve got some figuring out to do.”

Ellie’s climbed into the Célèste’s back already, she knows how 2CV doors work, after all, and Kathryn is running her fingers over the slender, curved roof strut reverentially, standing in the open passenger’s door. I swing myself into the driver’s seat, again with practiced ease, and start the engine lovingly. The sound is music in my ears, more cherished than any Mustang’s howl – the whirring cricket chirrup of the whopping twenty-nine horse powers I know so well. Tom’s swearing again; he stalls the engine a couple of times, trying to get off the parking lot, while I drive loops around him, just because Célèste and I can. 

To add insult to injury, B’Elanna decides to joins us when Tom chokes the 2CV yet again, trying to change to second gear. At least Harry’s timing is good – he chooses that precise moment to arrive from the bridge, and now we have an all-male Charleston and an all-female Célèste; fitting, in a way, even if the weight is distributed a little unevenly, now. Still, my experience with driving a 2CV probably outweighs that; we zoom away, to excited whoops from B’Elanna and Kathryn when I take the turn out of the parking lot with gusto.

* * *

The tiny cars are amazing – Kathryn dimly remembers seeing cars like them in the Hirogen simulation, but sitting in one of them… This is almost too far removed from what they did during the first fifteen minutes to still be called the same thing, but these _are_ cars, and they _are_ driving them. More interesting, indeed; switchbacks are almost more fun in these cars than on a motorbike. Almost. The scenery seems quintessentially Mediterranean, too – that is the one Marseille is next to, not the Atlantic, right? Kathryn tries to remember, but getting lost in cypresses and karst seems more in keeping with the moment.

One hand hanging deceptively inactive inside the huge steering wheel, the other gesticulating lazily, Marie explains how she’s had a car like this when she was a student, how they were built to meet a minimum of requirements (and such requirements, too: a car to carry two farmers, a keg of wine, and a tray of eggs that mustn’t break, no matter how bad the road. Oh, and keep it cheap. Kathryn chuckles at the thought), and how it became a beloved icon in most European countries, complete with nicknames. ‘Tin snail’ – well, the reason for _that’s_ plain to see. ‘Ugly duckling’ – certainly not, they’re pretty enough, but ‘Duck’ in and of itself is nice. ‘Two horses’ – wasn’t horse power an ancient way of measuring engine output? At any rate, ‘four wheels beneath an umbrella’ sounds almost poetic, if quaint.

Then Marie points out the sea, and three necks crane to have a glimpse of the Mediterranean while Marie proceeds to praise the Duck’s accomplishments in races and rallies, and lists records that were set using them, and movies they starred in. Her knowledge seems quite comprehensive, and Kathryn wonders what else Marie might have in store for her. She’s positive that Marie’s bragging, though, when the younger woman explains how she disassembled and reassembled the one she’d owned, exchanging the platform and the gearbox in the process, but Ellie nods confirmation. 

Marie? Social worker who drives a bicycle to work? Granted, she’d said she dabbles a bit in this and in that, but – who _is_ this woman next to Kathryn? B’Elanna and Marie, meanwhile, are happily talking shop, the Chief Engineer hanging between the two front seats like a monkey until Marie takes the next curve with a speed that has the car heel more sharply than the sloop on Lake Garda, and B’Elanna drops back into her seat with a surprised whoop. 

“Sorry,” Marie calls, then grins. “Stand up if you want to, though; we’re barely doing fifty as it is. Curves will be even more exciting that way, and you can look for the Charleston in the process.”

 _That_ quick B’Elanna is on her seat, never mind her pregnant belly, and Ellie follows suit after a moment. What little airstream there is whips their hair into their faces when they turn around, and they report spotting the grey car a few times, a couple of hundred meters back. After a final turn, the road stretches straight ahead, and Marie, grinning madly all the while, starts meandering from its left bank to its right, tearing squeals and laughter from their back seat passengers. 

“You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?” Kathryn asks her, eyebrow raised. A sharp swerve to the left slams her into Marie’s shoulder, and in a completely transparent motion, Marie has turned her head at the same time so that her lips meet Kathryn’s nose. 

“Hell, yes.” Her answer is hardly audible above the car’s unbelievable noise, but Marie’s smile threatens to split her head in half, and Kathryn can’t help but kiss her back when another swerve to the right brings Marie into range. More squeals from the back seat, and Kathryn turns her head quickly to see two heads turning, and suggestive elbow action, and more laughing. 

“Hold on to the roof strut and step onto the edges of the seat,” Marie suggests, “then glare at them from up there. Much more efficient.” Raising her eyebrow again, Kathryn smirks at her, but the idea of climbing up is tempting, airstream or no, so up she goes.

Curves are indeed more exciting this way, and the look on Tom’s and Harry’s faces when they see what’s going on in Célèste beggars all description. It does dissolve every last one of Tom’s hesitations, though, and he keeps on gaining until the Charleston is almost bumper to bumper with them and Marie is using the swerving to keep Tom from overtaking, not that it takes much on this narrow road. 

There are more and more views of the sea, impossibly blue under a cloud-dotted sky, and Marie’s singing something or the other, keeping time by banging on the door from the outside, arm hanging out the flip-up window. She withdraws it when a series of switchbacks draws near, though, and tackles them with much cranking of the wheel. The three passengers slip back into their seats quickly, to avoid being jolted out, and suddenly Tom zips by, the Charleston’s left rear end hitting the ground with a sickening sound. They can hear the two men shout and cheer, and Marie toots a horn that’s more of a beep than anything, and sets out to get even.

Tom’s just as adept of blocking the road as Marie’s been, though, and he finally seems to have found the touch this car needs. This stretch of road is level, and not as winding as the first, and now the difference in load makes itself felt – the Charleston slowly pulls away until it disappears round a bend. 

B’Elanna is seething, alternating between sulking in her back seat and cursing in Klingon, and hanging on the back of the front seats, urging Marie to tease every last bit of speed out of the small engine. When they draw near another parking lot, her scowl deepens when she sees Tom and Harry, waiting and waving.

“Go on, pass them by,” she hisses, but Marie pulls over and stops the car with a gravel-spitting flourish.

“Well, ladies, we had a picnic waiting for you, but now it’s all dusty,” Tom drawls, then brings out a bottle of red from behind his back with a grin while Harry holds up glasses. Marie grins, too, and busies herself with the Charleston’s back seat while Kathryn, Ellie and B’Elanna disembark, the last casting dark looks at either driver. 

“Harry, can you lend me a hand here?” Marie asks, and ten seconds later, the back seat stands on the gravel and the two of them are busy with Célèste’s. The men bring the two benches over to where the parking lot looks out over the sea, bowing and beckoning the ‘ladies’ to have a seat, and perching on the rocks themselves. Tom pours; the wine is excellent – Tom’s always had a way with wine; Kathryn wonders what he’ll make of the Amarone, now that she knows it’s made the journey, too. It’ll have to wait until after the birth, of course. They’re having synthehol now, to appease B’Elanna (not that it’s working), but the Amarone… Kathryn well remembers its strength.

It’s the view that has B’Elanna finally relent and agree, however grudgingly, that this is a good spot for a breather. The sun is over an archipelago to their right, which Tom identifies as the Îles de Riou, a wildlife habitat and the place where famous author and pilot Saint-Exupéry found his death in a plane crash. 

“I didn’t know that,” Marie breathes, eyes wide.

“Mark that date,” Ellie replies dryly, raising her glass in mock salute when Marie smirks at her. 

“And a very famous diving spot in its own right,” Tom adds, “with ship wrecks from Roman times to the nineteenth century. Not much left of Saint-Exupéry’s plane, though.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Kathryn smiles. Diving is fun all by itself, but doubly so with wrecks to explore.

This spot is perfect indeed – craggy cliffs to their left, an amiable little town further ahead to their right, the group of islands paling slowly to Prussian blue, sea gulls and storm petrels wheeling and careening overhead… and the slow plinking of cooling engines at her back, and a glass of very agreeable Médoc in her hand. _Yes, indeed, Mister Paris, quite the place for a drive and a picnic._

B’Elanna demands to be taught how to drive the car, and, after putting the back seat back in Célèste, Tom and Marie give her a quick lesson while Kathryn and Harry chat with Ellie about the current mission – Ellie seems to know less about early space travel than Marie did, but seems no less interested, and Kathryn can almost watch Harry fall for her, not that he’s got much chance, to judge by Ellie’s eyes. 

The three of them turn around wide-eyed when B’Elanna tears into the parking lot with screaming tires. She’s as quick a learner in this as in most things technical, apparently, and the grins on the three faces when they get out of the car are almost identical, wide and gleeful. 

“You should have taught me in this kind of car from the beginning,” B’Elanna swats Tom’s arm, “with the Camaro, it was always ‘don’t touch this, don’t break that, watch out for the hubs’.”

“Hub caps, B’Elanna,” Tom corrects her, a pained look crossing his face, then dodges another swipe. “And I didn’t know these cars went like this until I tried, myself, today, for the first time!”

“I’ve taught quite a few people to drive in a 2CV,” Marie adds with an inviting wink at Kathryn, who quickly shakes her head no. The very _idea_. “Didn’t I, Ellie?”

“Don’t remind me…” Ellie fakes a shudder, and launches into an anecdote of such horrendous failures that Kathryn feels heartened enough to give it a try, especially when Harry – Harry! – joins them egging her on.

* * *

“Best take your boots off,” I begin when we sit, and that does not go down at all well. “No, really, you need to feel the car, and heels are terrible for that.”

“I did, too,” B’Elanna chimes from outside. Tom and Harry have agreed to take her and Ellie along in the Charleston, to give Kathryn and me some privacy – which apparently does not translate to ‘stepping away while the captain tries to get going’. They all catch a glare, and it’s Harry who finally relents and leads them to the cliff’s edge again, to look at the sun slowly setting behind the Îles. It’s then that Kathryn finally does take her boots off, and I explain where the gears are, showing her the little pictogram on the dashboard.

“Alright, what I want you to feel is how the engine’s vibrations change when you reach the biting point – the moment when the two clutch plates engage.” She looks at me, eyes blank, and I elaborate, “one of them is connected to the engine and turns, the other is connected to the front wheels and doesn’t, as long as the car’s in neutral, or, when a gear’s in, as long as you’re on the clutch pedal. When you let the clutch out, which means-”

“-raising my left foot, yes, I remember that much,” she interrupts me impatiently, her hands urging me to go on.

“Exactly. Well, those plates converge until they touch,” I mimic that, bringing my palms together, “and that way, the engine’s motion is transferred and we get going.” This seems to suffice as explanation; she nods in understanding. “Don’t flinch when we do, or when we start to hop,” I go on, “but keep your foot where it is, then bring your right foot gently – gently! – down on the gas. Let the clutch out completely when you notice the motor’s catching on. Go nice and easy on the right foot, too; too much and you’ll leave skid marks, too slow and you’ll stall the engine, which really is no problem – Tom did it four times, if you’ll remember, and B’Elanna twice.”

“It sounded horrible,” she murmurs, lips pursed, and I know she won’t be satisfied if she doesn’t manage it at first go.

“Well, the gears aren’t too happy when it happens, but don’t worry, they’ll survive. So. Left foot, right foot – right.” I reach across the wheel and start the engine; she pops the gear in after a quick check of the pictogram. “Ease up very slowly – there, feel that?” Kathryn must be the first student driver _ever_ not to jerk her foot away, so she actually, truly, _really_ doesn’t kill the engine. We do hop a bit, but all things considered, she’s doing fine, until we reach the point where even a Duck’s engine screams for second gear. 

“Right foot all the way off, left all the way down.” She complies and pushes the stick into second gear, “and… easy again – there you go. Go ahead, down the road – yes, I’m serious.” 

Eyes fixed on the road, hands clenched around the wheel, her smile is proud, and brilliant, and a little wild – I’ve seen that look on others, and I love it on her face. When I stick my hand up and wave the four left-behinds goodbye, they scramble when they realize we’re not turning and coming back, and I chuckle. “Ready for third?” 

She nods, still a little anxious, but the road is straight, and she’s doing fine. Once you move, driving’s easy, even if a 2CV is sluggish. But I’ve always felt that, for a beginner, that’s the way to go, anyway. We practice changing gears on straight bits of road and steering on the winding ones (well, hard to do it any other way, really), going up to sixty kph when the Charleston appears in the rear mirror. Apparently Tom’s found out how to toot the horn, or maybe Ellie’s shown him the lever, but toot he does. 

I climb to my seat and wave him closer, whooping when I see it’s not Tom at all who’s driving, but B’Elanna. “Let’s go slow, alright? Does this road go down into that town we saw?” I yell when they’re close enough.

“Yeah, it does,” he answers, up on his seat as well, “and there’s a nice little restaurant at the harbor.”

“Sounds great,” I reply and plop back down. 

Negotiating a switchback is certainly not easy when you barely have two kilometers under your belt, but both of them manage to coordinate steering and changing gears, Kathryn more smoothly than B’Elanna, in fact. There’s a large parking lot right behind the city limits sign for Cassis, and we pull into it side by side, and Kathryn releases a breath, and white-knuckled fingers. 

“I don’t believe this,” she says with a laugh, “I drove a car! It seemed so complicated when I watched you; I never thought…”

“…it would be so easy?” I tease her, catching one of her hands for a quick massage while she swats me with the free one. 

“It’s not! But it’s fun.” Her eyes sparkle, and I steal another kiss.

“Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Tom grins into Célèste from across the hood, oblivious to the sudden glare from behind the steering wheel. “How do you pop this, anyway? I want to have a look at that engine.”

“There’s a catch under the grill, just pull that,” I tell him.

“That’s it?” He goggles when the hood indeed comes free. “That’s the first car I get my hands on that doesn’t have an interior release button, you know.”

“Yah. Low tech, right?” 

I climb out to stand next to him, and grin when he whistles, then chuckles. “Hell, I’ve seen bigger engines in a power mower!”

We joke about engine size all the way across the parking lot, and I grow envious when he tells me he drove a VW camper van one time. Tom also explains how individual transport, so uncommon on the American continent, thrives in Europe to this day, even though it’s no longer cars but ‘ground flitters’, apparently. Communities are much smaller, and ‘transporter hubs’ rarer, so individual it needs to be, something that makes sense to me, even if he calls it ‘practically medieval’. But the roads are still there, and sometimes there are real rallies with real cars, and his eyes gleam when he talks about the ones he’s seen in person. Something like the Mille Miglia, from what he says.

“You could enter,” he suggests, “when we’re back. The way you drive – they wouldn’t stand a chance; they drive, like, once every two years or so.” By now his eyes are wicked, and B’Elanna elbows him in the ribs again.

On our way down to the harbor and its row of restaurants, he and Kathryn bicker about who’ll provide the replicator rations, while B’Elanna explains that you can indeed eat on a holodeck if you’re prepared to spend those rations, since food and drink doesn’t get projected but actually replicated if you do. Eventually, it’s decided that they split checks, apparently. Harry is being invited by Tom and B’Elanna, and Ellie and I will dine on Kathryn’s account. 

We have fish. It’s gorgeous. Much better than goulash, at any rate.


	2. House call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is set not much later, sometime between the episodes "Friendship One" and "Homestead".
> 
> And it's dedicated to Magnusfire, who was so looking forward to seeing the two ladies interact. I hope this is what you had in mind ;-)

The chime for the door rings out right when I’m about to settle on the sofa, book in one hand, cup of tea in another. 

“Come in.” She strides in, this woman of contrasts. Her face so incredibly beautiful but so inhumanly composed. Her hair so perfectly blonde but so severely restricted. Her body so lushly flawless but so pointedly ignored.

“I had hoped to speak with you.” Her voice, so musical, so dry. 

“Gladly,” I smile at her. “Come in, come in – can I offer you anything? I’ve replicated tea for me, do you want a cup?”

“I don’t require a beverage at this point.”

“Well then,” I go on, keeping my smile from deepening at her way of talking, “what can I do for you? Here to ask me some questions?”

She tilts her head to the side. “If you have the time, there are several matters I would talk to you about.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I indicate the easy chair with my cup and sit down on the sofa, leg folded beneath me the way I like it. “So shoot.” 

Even the way she sits down is perfect. Yet her back looks as though it must hurt like hell of a night, straight as it is. Does she sleep at all? “I am curious as to the nature of intimate relationships. Even though I have asked other people already, I estimate that your profession and your… personal situation might offer me new insights.”

Jerking my cup away from my chin, I cough weakly. “How long do you have?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well,” I breathe and take a real sip, with a real possibility of getting it down this time, “there are tons of books written on the subject, millions of pieces of music – in fact, you could say most of art springs from there. We could talk for hours and be no closer to a true understanding of the matter, you see.” I smile at her. “It’s one of the most confusing, irritating, turbulent experiences there is, I’d say. I mean, where would we even start?”

“The entering of a romantic relationship would seem logical.” The angle of her head never changes. So, is that where she’s headed? I’ve seen the spark in Chakotay’s eyes when he looks at her; I have no idea whether her eyes would hold something like that – they don’t, right now, but that’s hardly a surprise.

“Well, what do you know of it already?” I ask her, remembering the words ‘new insights’. “No point in going over things you already understand, is there?”

“My previous research indicates that, at the beginning of a human dyadic relationship, usually one, sometimes both participants feel ‘drawn towards the other’, an expression that seems to indicate a desire to spend more time in the other’s company.” I tilt my head in assent. So far, so true. “Research also suggests that the next step seems to present complications. I do not fully understand why that would be so.”

“Which step are you talking about?”

“Ascertaining whether the other individual reciprocates that desire,” she replies, still in that dry tone of hers. “It seems… unduly complicated.”

“Unduly?” I have to suppress a smile. Does she want to ascertain whether Chakotay feels the same for her as she does for him, or is that just my sordid imagination?

“A simple question would suffice, wouldn’t it?”

Sinking against the backrest, I take another swallow of my tea. “You sound dubious as to that.”

“My observations of human behavior have led me to the conclusion that the act of being asked about personal emotions causes a wide array of reactions, from a simple, truthful answer to an outright lie, even to immediate re-assessment of the emotions in question.” I do raise my eyebrows at that. Perceptive – yes, sometimes being asked does make a person re-evaluate things, doesn’t it? “I don’t fully understand why that would be so,” Seven goes on, “but I have watched a number of crewmembers respond like this often enough to recognize the process, if not the motivation.”

“And do you have a theory as to the latter?” God, but this is fascinating. Seven looks nothing as vulnerable as her words seem to imply. Maybe she isn’t talking about herself, so. But even so, she seems… baffled. At a loss. I can certainly relate to that, but to listen to someone with an outsider’s view of the matter, as it were, speculate on it… Fascinating.

“I have heard the expression ‘to hurt someone’s feelings’ in this context,” Seven replies, frowning minutely. “Yet I fail to see how an accurate description of a person’s emotional state could hurt the feelings of the questioner. He or she has, with that question, indicated a wish to know exactly that, after all.”

“And made himself or herself very vulnerable in the process,” I add. “There are several aspects complicating the situation even further. Would the answer be positive or negative? How do the two people involved usually relate to one another – are they friends already? Colleagues? Will they see one another after the questioner gets an answer? Is the questioner known to react positively to honest feedback on personal matters? Is the person being asked brave enough to give it?”

“I see the matter is even more complex than I assumed.” Seven’s voice is dry, but just that bit ironic too, and I grin in reply. 

“Indeed.” I drain my cup and rise to get another. “Every single person, all by herself, or himself, is complex. Add another individual and the level rises, and not even linearly. Add a set of circumstances, like being on a ship in the middle of nowhere, a ship you can’t leave, with a very limited amount of other individuals onboard…” Sitting back down, I sigh. “Level of complications just shoots through the roof.” My hand paints a vivid picture of what I mean, endangering the cup I’m holding in the other. Then I change direction on her, just to see whether she’ll go along. It works on Kathryn; it might work for Seven, too. “What would you think people’s main goal is, here on _Voyager_ , as regards interpersonal relations?”

“Working together efficiently,” Seven replies instantly. 

“And just how do personal feelings come into this?”

This time, the answer is quite a bit longer in coming. “A positive emotional disposition towards another individual usually increases efficiency when working with that individual. I have observed, however, that situations can arise where greater detachment would be more conducive to a person’s decisiveness.” Her gaze is level, and just a bit too long, or would be if her mimics were more human. As it is, I can’t be sure whether it’s intentionally too long, or just her way, but I can’t help thinking of Kathryn, either, and her misgivings about our relationship.

“It’s a difficult balance,” I hedge. “A balance that can be upset by a lot of things, up to and including a situation where the feelings of one person towards another change for some reason. When the friendship one person feels towards another changes into love.”

“As was the case when Lieutenants Torres and Paris decided to enter a relationship.”

I weigh my head with a smile. “Possibly. I wasn’t there.”

“So a wish not to upset this… balance, can influence how a person reacts when asked about their feelings.” She does sound a little puzzled, still.

“That, yes, among other things. Go back a step, for example, and think about the person asking the question – they have to decide to ask, and that question in and of itself might upset the balance. People know it does, so they might decide not to ask at all; to keep things how they are.”

“In which case the other person would be unaware of the change,” Seven replies with a cocked implant.

I nod. “Or able to ignore it, if they were.” 

“It is a difficult concept,” she confesses. “To hide a change this way. In a collective, it wouldn’t happen.” She notices my curiosity spiking, I’m sure of that. “When all thoughts are one, there is no deceit,” she elaborates. 

“Deceit is a harsh word, Seven. It would imply a bad intention that usually isn’t there. No, usually a person keeps something like that to themselves because they don’t want to upset the status quo.”

“One can adapt to change.” Not so detached anymore. I wonder what memories are causing her eyes to darken like this.

“Oh, _one_ certainly can. But popping the question would mean compelling someone else to adapt too, and sometimes, you don’t want to compel that certain someone to do anything. That, again, depends on just who the other someone is, among other things.” I tilt my head. “On the other hand, adapting to change means growth, doesn’t it. So there’s another balance to be considered – do I keep that opportunity to grow from the person I have feelings for? Do I keep it from myself?” She frowns, minutely. My turn to elaborate. “If I don’t ask, I might never enter a relationship with that someone, which also means an opportunity to grow. For either person.”

“Because they’d have to adapt being in a relationship instead of being… single.” The last word sounds completely odd, and I wonder where she knows it from, but then, she _has_ said she researched this, right? I wonder who she’s asked, if she’s asked anyone, and what they’ve answered.

“Yes. And the people around you, who are used to interacting with single you, need to adapt to interact with relationship you, and two of them, too – if things turn out that way.”

“You are referring to jealousy,” she states. She rarely asks things, does she.

“Well, that would be one thing that could happen, yes. Or disappointment, if not outright jealousy. But there are other, smaller changes, too. When you enter a relationship, you spend more time with your partner – that’s the point, after all – and in most instances, that means spending less time with other people. Friends, family, colleagues. Some people resent that. And if it impairs the quality of your work, your superior officer will object.” I think of something. “Although undeclared romantic feelings can result in a deterioration of work, too, sometimes.” I grin at her. “Makes you wonder why we bother, hm?”

She drops her gaze, for the first time since she’s come in. “I can see the appeal of a relationship.”

Whoa. Talk about vulnerable. “Have you thought about entering one?”

“I am thinking about it.” 

Talk about raising the stakes. “Would you say you’re in love with someone?” Seven is silent for the longest time. “You don’t have to answer, Seven. You certainly don’t have to tell me anything so personal. I’m sorry if my question-”

“I am… not certain.” She pauses. “I would appreciate if you could… describe the sensation so that I can ascertain whether my emotions match that description.”

 _Meine_ Güte. “I can give it a try,” I say carefully, “provided it’s understood that this is a very, very subjective thing. My… symptoms might not be yours, you see.”

“Understood.” Is that a swallow? “Proceed.”

I exhale slowly, and change position on the sofa, sit up straighter, more open. “You talked, at the beginning, about feeling drawn to someone.”

“Correct.”

“That’s a start. You… no, sorry. I’ll use the first person, to emphasize subjectivity, alright?” She nods, curtly. She might not even need it, but, social worker that I am, _I_ need it. “When I’m in love, I want to spend time in that person’s presence, because she makes me laugh, or has interesting stories to tell, or makes me feel good for another reason. It might not even be something I can grasp rationally, just something my intuition, my… hunches tell me to go with.” Again, I wait for her nod. “Thus far, this is quite similar to how I’d feel about winning someone as a friend, too, but in a love interest, there’s the physical aspect, too.” This time, her nod comes without me having to pause for it. I swallow my grin. Uh-huh. “The desire to touch someone in a pleasant way is a strong indicator of being in love. After all, personal space is so important to people that allowing someone to enter it implies a high level of trust.”

“Captain Janeway is a very tactile person, as is Mister Neelix. Commander Chakotay is not – he usually transforms the impulse into touching his ear, or clasping his hands. Lieutenant Commander Tuvok, as a Vulcan, refrains from touching, of course, and Lieutenant Paris often touches his wife, and sometimes Ensign Kim, but rarely anyone else.”

I nod. Research, hm? “And these gestures – well, apart from Tom and B’Elanna, maybe, but I wouldn’t know much about that – are platonic.”

Seven nods. “Expressing affection, but not sexual attraction.”

“Exactly.”

“I have felt the need to clarify my actions, at times, to help the recipient of the gesture ascertain its nature. When receiving them myself, I have experienced… difficulty differentiating between the two forms.”

I laugh a little. “Oh, you’re not the only one. A big reason for a lot of misunderstandings and jealousy, that.” Growing more serious again, I ask her, “what does your research about it tells you so far?”

“The definition seems to hinge on the placement and duration of contact, of the persons involved, and of several situational aspects,” she replies. “There are several gestures that tend to be considered platonic even when performed by sexual partners, such as a handshake, and there are others that indicate intimate, if not necessarily sexual relations, such as touching another person’s cheek. Touching a person’s erogenous zones, even if by mistake, is usually not considered an acceptable platonic gesture.”

“All correct, Seven. Well – there you have it, then.” I lean back. 

“Insufficient,” she says immediately, and I laugh again.

“Of course it is! If it weren’t, things wouldn’t be so difficult for us all, now would they?” I sit up again, folding one leg beneath me, taking a swallow of tea – good thing hibiscus is as good cold as when it’s hot. “Anyway, let’s get back to those symptoms of being in love, right?”

“Yes. Proceed, please.”

“So, I know this person, and she makes me feel good, and I want to spend time in her company and touch her in not-so-platonic ways. I might experience sexual arousal at imagining both giving and receiving such touches. You are able to define sexual arousal?”

“Of course. An increase in heart rate and breathing-”

I raise my hand to stop her. I know the symptoms, after all. “As long as _you_ recognize them, Seven…” I grin. “Alright, so those would be possible symptoms of being in love, too. Others might include a difficulty to concentrate because my thoughts are drawn by that person-”

“Which would result a deterioration of your work efficiency,” Seven interrupts me, catching on to what I said earlier.

“Exactly.”

“Please proceed,” she tells me again. 

“So, I’ve mentioned distraction – some people take it a little farther and daydream, or get their head into knots about whether or not the other person reciprocates those feelings. They might try to evaluate what that person says or does, and sometimes they far overshoot the mark, too. That would be an argument in favor of asking, alright,” I smile at how she opens her mouth, “but it’s a question of courage, you know. I did mention the vulnerability of exposing one’s feelings, right?” She nods, and I return to my list of symptoms. “Sometimes I get elated just thinking about that special someone, or being with her, but I guess that’s a physical reaction as much as psychological, from hormonal influences, you know. Sleeplessness would be another; just as feeling weak at the knees or short of breath or tongue-tied, or the famous butterflies in your stomach.” 

“I have heard that expression. I believe I would recognize the sensation,” she replies to my cocked head, and I quickly shake my head in amazement. Wherever has she-? _On, Vey._

“Well, good. And sometimes, people’s behavior towards others changes, too. If I constantly think of someone, chances are I’ll constantly talk of them, too,” I elaborate to appease her frown. “And if I want to get close to a person, I might resent others getting or being close to them.”

“Jealousy again.”

“Indeed.”

“Which would bring us back to the initial situation of informing the other person, and those close to them, of your intentions.”

I smile again and repeat, “indeed.”

“I understand. And I thank you for your information. But your answers have ascertained that you cannot answer my further questions,” she suddenly says, and stands. 

“Whoa – why not?”

“Because surely informing a person of the same sex is different from informing a person of the opposite sex.”

Well. I refrain from grinning, or pointing out that I might just have some experiences of propositioning someone of the opposite sex, or asking whom else she’d go to, then. Instead I get up, too, and walk around the small tea table to get a little closer to her, taking another sip of tea. “Why would that be?”

“Interactions between females differ quite markedly from interactions between females and males, and yet again from interactions between two males.”

“Well, yes. Of course they do. But some things apply universally, or as much as can be with individuals, whereas others apply only individually in any case.”

She turns her head towards me a little. “These universal forms of interaction…”

“Let’s sit down again, shall we? They’re quite a few.”

She complies.

I like her. Her questions are interesting, invigorating, and to the point. Well, _her_ point. And the divergence of that point from mine is fascinating, too. I guess we’re well matched for openness, too, or at least my openness is a good match for her curiosity. She doesn’t speak much about herself, but that’s alright – she came here to get information, after all, and if I gain some insights into her, it’s only a byproduct of my watching. I see why Kathryn is so proud of Seven. Sometimes I get glimpses of behavior, of ways of thinking, that I’d swear are derived from Kathryn’s influence. But Seven is very much her own person, and, I’d say, at ease with it. 

She doesn’t react well to compliments, though. A bit like Ellie, in that aspect – I just hope Ellie won’t adopt the word ‘acceptable’ to this degree. Then again, I don’t know if Seven really needs the ego boost a compliment can be – her self-assurance seems quite firmly in place, although, as of now, I can’t say whether it’s true confidence. Sometimes people can have quite a front of it and yet be completely insecure behind that, right? 

And she has a very subtle, highly intelligent sense of humor. Sardonic. I wouldn’t wonder, what with her lack of inhibition and her tendency to speak in statements rather than questions, if she hadn’t been quite abrasive in the beginning. And I think it’s testament to the strength of this… collective, of _Voyager’s_ crew, that they have integrated her so well. 

Then one of them comes in, the one that has butterflies hatch in my intestines whenever I look at her, and she looks so baffled at finding me laughing over something Seven has said that I have to laugh even harder.


	3. Fun with an empty orchestra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows right after the episode "Homestead".

“Miss him?” 

Ellie nods. We’re in the aft mess hall, staring at the stars converging to a point somewhere behind. I’d never thought Ellie would take to Neelix the way she had, but then she’s befriended a lot of people very quickly. Tom and B’Elanna – well, we both have. Harry – oh dear. Harry had a crush on Ellie within minutes (which I can totally understand, from a not-so-dimly remembered point of view). Futile, though, and it had fallen to me to tell him he’s not her type; it’s what best friends do, after all – or counselors, take your pick. These three, we both befriended, but Ellie then hit it off with the Delaney Sisters, Jenny especially, and through them Tal, who works in Astrometrics as well. But Neelix! I’d liked him because he was enthusiastic in the kitchen, and such a great godfather to Naomi (who’s become fast friends with me by now), but, enthusiast as I myself can be, he was just too much. 

“Yeah,” she sighs. “And who will cook now? You?”

I grin. “Not as a full-time replacement, surely. But maybe every once in a while. How about you, though? You’re just as good as I am.”

“Am not.” The childish reply makes us both smile, and I reply in kind. 

“Are, too. Come on, Leelee, admit to your strengths, just once, just for the novelty of it.” So I’m needling. But it isn’t the first time I’ve tried to get her to acknowledge what she’s good at, is it? She is like that. Strange to think how different we are, in this. How often she’s told me she wished for a tenth of my confidence, how often I’ve thought (in my heart of hearts) that a bit of her humbleness would probably do me good.

“Tal has spoken up already,” she tells me, and I roll my eyes. 

“But she can’t do it alone, can she? She’s not Talaxian, she needs more sleep. And I doubt that Seven is going to let her skip out of Astrometrics completely.” I tilt my head, looking back at the stars. “You need a team. Wasn’t… oh, what’s his name – blue, uh, Bo-” Hell. I can’t remember his name, nor even the name of his species, and it’s almost a month that I’m here, now.

“Oh, you mean Chell?” Holy rolodex, but she’s a marvel with names. And personal details, too. I have to read up on them, make files and notes and memos, she just – knows. And no, she doesn’t acknowledge that, either. “Yes, he wants to take over galley duties as well.”

“Well, there you are, then. Just need to get it all organized, right?”

“Do you really think so? That I should do it?”

I grin at her again, trying to give her as much reassurance as I can. “I wouldn’t suggest it otherwise, you know that.”

“I do.” She raises a hand, finger outstretched, and I hold still while she pushes my glasses up my nose. She’ll do that, from time to time, just as, sometimes, she’ll push my nose stud back in if it has popped out and I haven’t noticed. I think back to what I’ve told Seven. These are intimate gestures both – not in a sexual way, but in regard to my personal space, and who I’ll allow in. In that way, they’re far more than just cosmetic corrections, too; they’re reassurance, in that Ellie feels free to do so and that I feel comfortable with her doing it. My grin turns to a smile to show her exactly that. 

She heaves a big breath. “I miss home, still.”

“I know. Me, too.” We sit for a while, lost in thought, side by side and silent. Companionable. Then I poke her arm lightly. “Did I get the scent right, by the way?”

“Of that softener?” Her smile is nothing less than brilliant, over such a small thing. “Perfect, Marie. Thanks again.”

“Oh, not for that,” I shrug it away. True, too. “I do know it turns heads, you know.”

“The smell of my fresh laundry? Come on, you’re kidding, right?”

“I swear, Ellie, if Tarik wasn’t married, he’d follow you like a puppy. And Harry’s nose flares every time you walk up to him.”

“Marie!” she laughs at me, “you’re insufferable. Tarik is just friendly, and Harry…”

“Poor Harry,” I agree with a sigh when she doesn’t go on. “Tom’s told me how he’ll fall for the wrong woman again and again, and now… well, who can blame him, right?” Ellie simply rolls her eyes at my saucy grin. “But come on,” I go on, “don’t tell me there’s no one here for you? Not a single officer and gentleman?”

“You know that’s not what I’m looking for in a man.”

I sigh again. “I do. Daring adventurer with a refined soul, right? And chest hair, of course.”

“And tattoos.”

“How about completely blue skin? Chell’s Maquis, that’s adventurous, right?”

“Marie…” Her voice sounds pained even though she doesn’t roll her eyes.

I raise my hands. “Alright, alright. I’m stopping.” Again, we both turn to look at the stars. I tilt my chair backwards and start to dangle my feet, even. No, this is not the aft rail of a ship, but it’s as close as can be, right? And dangling your feet goes with it.

“I miss sunshine, you know,” I say after a while of this. “And how the air tastes in springtime.” 

“Going to concerts, or the theater,” Ellie nods. “Still, I wouldn’t go back, you know.”

“You wouldn’t?” I wouldn’t have thought that.

A smile blooms, though her eyes keep looking into space. “No migraine. The Doc had a remedy.”

“Leelee!” I turn to her, almost overthrowing my chair. “That’s fantastic!”

“Isn’t it though?” she smiles back at me. “And no hay fever, and… oh you know, all those little things. Gone, just like that!” She snaps her fingers. Both hands, too.

“I know.” Well do I remember my own amazement at how the Doctor, with a hypo, an application of some instrument or other, and one medium-sized ambulant surgery, had taken care of ‘those little things’ for me, too. “I haven’t felt this healthy in years; you?” She shakes her head, still smiling. “And I’ve decided to work out, to keep my new weight, too. Care to join me? There’s a gym someone’s set up in a storage room, and there’s always the holodeck.”

“But you need timeslots for that,” she frowns. 

“Yeah, and we’ll win them off everyone tonight,” I grin back. Her frown deepens – she’s forgotten, then, has she? “The karaoke contest Tom’s thought up and never implemented because Neelix couldn’t really sing?”

“Oh God, don’t remind me.”

* * *

Heavens know why she’s let Marie talk her into this. Kathryn can’t even sing, and certainly won’t, and most assuredly not in front of her crew, but Marie has badgered and dug and insisted she come, at least to have a look. ‘You have to keep the Doctor from doing opera, Kathryn’, indeed, and now they’re in Sandrine’s, bouncing their feet to Nicoletti’s rendition of a jaunty Andorian tune. 

There’d been a silly duet of Tom against Harry’s clarinet just to set things off, which Harry clearly won, according to the clap-o-meter (that name – good grief. Trust Tom Paris to make a contest of things). A couple of more serious challenges followed – you could tell from the stakes. Tom had explained beforehand; the number of holodeck timeslots the challenger places speaks volumes – not about their abilities, but about their confidence; the latter not necessarily being related to the former. 

The clap-o-meter sees Nicoletti clearly above Chell, who’d sung the song first, and she proudly claims the two timeslots hanging on the match. 

“Alright,” Tom looks at his PADD and does a double-take, “now _that_ is obscure. Just who the devil is ABBA?” There’s a whoop from behind the bar’s corner, and Ensign Harper steps forwards, clearly delighted. “Well, at least the title fits – the winner will take it all! Three timeslots, ladies and gentlemen, three slots to anyone who thinks they know this ABBA well enough to take Miss Harper on.” Tom’s face clearly shows his skepticism, but then Jenny Delaney’s hand comes up, and his expression turns so stunned that even Kathryn laughs.

“Oh, not me, Flyboy,” Jenny grins, then pushes Ellie forwards, “come on, Ellie, go for it!”

People cheer and clap again, and Ellie, though blushing, steps up onto the stage. Well – the raised platform, not even two by two meters and barely twenty centimeters high, but Tom’s been calling it ‘the stage’ ever since the party started, so ‘the stage’ it is. This time, it’s not just music from the speakers that accompanies the singers, but the bar’s actual piano player, and the song is sweet and sad. Ensign Harper goes first, her voice clear and emotional, though failing a bit on the highest notes. When she surrenders the stage to Ellie, though, Marie’s grin hints very clearly at what’s to come. 

“She sang in a choir for years; we both did,” she tells Kathryn when the song ends and people break out in cheers, the loudest coming from the group around the Delaney sisters. “There’s almost nothing she can’t do with her voice, you know. I mean, ABBA is hell to sing, but I knew she’d lick this. I would never go against her in a song contest, never. God, what wouldn’t I have given to be allowed to bet on this,” she sighs with another grin.

“Alright, people,” Tom’s shout gets attention back to him, “that’s a clear win for Miss Will! And now we’re back to the standards again, it seems – here we have ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, a challenge from Josh Biddle – who’ll take him up for five?”

Kathryn raises her eyebrows. Five – the highest stake so far. Marie nudges her side and catches a glare, but that one is nothing, _nothing_ compared to the one Kathryn gives her when the younger woman’s hand comes up. She’s half afraid that Marie will pull the same stunt Jenny Delaney did on Ellie, but then again, seeing Marie herself walk up to Tom doesn’t really feel reassuring, either.

“Our new counselor – you did mention you could sing, I remember that!” Tom points a delighted finger. “Let’s hear it for Miss Vey and Mister Biddle, everybody!”

People clap when Biddle takes the stage – and quite a bit louder when he leaves, although he doesn’t reap the applause his predecessors got. Yes, his voice is smooth, and yes, he hit all the right notes, too – not something that can be said for every contestant tonight, not that Kathryn’s really listened to him, mortified as she still feels. Then Marie steps up and people shush, and Kathryn belatedly realizes that the lyrics – oh, no. 

Marie fiddles with the control PADD for a bit, then starts on a much higher note than Biddle did. Kathryn recognizes this version as the one they sang along to on their way to Italy, and relaxes a little as the first verse goes over innocently enough. People laugh appreciatively when Marie aims the ‘Darling, kiss me’ at Harry, who blushes fiercely. Then the second verse starts and Kathryn works hard, very hard, at suppressing not only one groan, but several. 

“Shoot a game of pool,” Marie’s clear alto croons, smile clearly audible, “and cross a galaxy or two; drink a sea of coffee, black, refuse all substitutes.” People are laughing, nudging, grinning. All amiably enough, but still… “In other words,” Marie’s eyes dance when she points a hand in uncanny imitation, “hold that glare-” oh, how people whoop, “in other words,” hands on hips, chin jutting, _good God, but_ \- “Captain, do it.” Marie knows she’ll catch hell for this, but the way she grins during the instrumental interlude makes it quite clear that she couldn’t care less, and what’s Kathryn to do but smile gamely? She’s been told to hold her glare, hasn’t she?

The third verse is true to the lyrics, and Kathryn breathes out secretly until, and again belatedly, she remembers just what this last verse _says_ , and what the last three words are. The look on Marie’s face has changed, too. She’d been incredibly smug at how well her second verse had resonated with the crowd, but now she seems completely oblivious to them, eyes fixed on Kathryn’s face, all joyful and tender. And, high though she started, the final three words end on the perfect pitch for her, and Tom doesn’t even bother with the clap-o-meter, seeing how the room practically explodes, and how sincerely Biddle cheers along with everybody. 

Things calm down for a bit after this, with people chatting excitedly and Tom taking the opportunity to enjoy a glass of wine. Then he hits the stage again, drawing every eye with a flamboyant gesture, and leads the crowd through half a dozen more duels. Kathryn can feel Marie’s hand twitch once or twice, but – and she thanks every available deity for that – the younger woman doesn’t raise it even once.

“Alright, folks, let’s call it a night for tonight!” Tom calls out after Biddle loses again, to Lessing this time. “Give a hand for everyone who dared to step up tonight – come on, people, let’s hear it! That’s right,” he nods when the crowd roars again, “you’ve convinced me! There will be a next time, and then it’ll be freeform duets; your choice of partner and song – Vulcan love songs versus Betazoid soul music, Klingon opera versus this mysterious ABBA guy, you name it and we’ll love it!”


	4. Fun on the water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really could have happened anytime. So I'd put it somewhere between "Homestead" and "Endgame" - well, obviously before "Endgame", right...

I have no idea where this program comes from or where it’s set, but it’s perfect – a quiet, slow river, fifty, fifty-five meters wide, trees, reeds, bird calls. Sunshine, and a light breeze. 

And a boathouse. 

I’ve been here quite a few times by now since I found it in the holodeck data base, almost always by myself, for all the invitations I’d given out. Then Seven, of all people, had taken me up on my words, and I’d been impressed. She’d grasped the technique so quickly that I’d put her into a skiff after the very first lesson, and she’d never once come close to upsetting the narrow boat’s balance. What had she called it? An efficient application of the principle of leverage? A pleasing symmetry of motion? True, all of it, and yet rowing means far more than that to me, and it had saddened me that no one had expressed an interest in it but her.

And now, this. I don’t have any idea how she’s done it nor even why, but Seven has convinced Kathryn to come, and Kathryn had asked B’Elanna, and B’Elanna in turn had roped Ellie into this, too – Ellie! Well, but a holodeck has safeties, right? Still, when we stand around the coxed quad, snug in its dry-dock of two cradles, her grey eyes look a little dubious. 

It’s a beautiful, beautiful classic wooden boat I’ve chosen, not a racing shell but a training boat, sleek and dashing still, and named _Artemis_ (but of course). I walk around it, actually climb in at one point, to explain and demonstrate technique and safety measures. Three heads around me nod while Seven is busy carrying the sculls and rudder to the jetty.

Finally, I climb out again. “Now, rowing’s a team sport, right? We have the stroke, that’s number one, counting from the cox. Stroke sets the pace and the length of each stroke. If you’re taller than the stroke and your reach could be longer, well, tough luck. Curb it. If stroke’s pace is too fast for you, say the word, though. We’re not doing any races, are we.” I throw a level look at _Voyager’s_ captain and her chief engineer. “Number two and three are the boat’s engine room,” I go on, “these places usually go to the strongest members of the team. Kathryn and B’Elanna, I want you in them.” Two mouths open, and close again. Thank _you_. I’m the coach, after all. I grin at them. “Trust me. Seven has the most experience, technique-wise, so I want you on four, in the bow.” A blond head nods, putting down the final pair of oars. “Ellie, you’re number one.”

“What!? But-”

I throw her a good, long look. “Coach steers. Yes?” She purses her lips, then nods. I give her a smile. “You’ll do just fine, don’t worry.” My smile includes all of them, now. “We’ll switch positions, too; maybe this time, maybe next. But for the start, that’s our layout.”

~~~

Getting _Artemis_ into the water is quite a feat. A wooden boat is heavy, after all. And pushing off the jetty is Seven’s and my job, for the most part – this will change when the other three are more confident about moving in a boat, but for now, it’s how it is. Then I explain how the sculls, wooden as they are, act like outriggers to keep _Artemis_ from tipping, and why it’s so important to keep hold of them. First command, ‘blades down’, is easy enough, then I rock a bit in my seat, have them repeat the motion, to show them how to balance. 

Then I stand up, to baffled stares, grin, put one foot on the gunwale and start rocking _Artemis_ more heavily, until oar handles bob quite sharply up and down. “Keep her steady – there you go. See what I mean?” I focus on Ellie. “We _can’t_ capsize, not if you keep ahold of your sculls. Now, ready all – that means move forward to catch position, but don’t put the blades in yet.”

“We’re drifting.” Seven. 

“I know.” I can’t help but keep on grinning. I’m enjoying myself far too much. “No matter, though, we’ll make up on it.” I let my eyes take in the four sets of sculls and their position. “Now, everyone, what I want you to do is keep your sculls parallel to the stroke’s ones. If your angle is smaller than the one in front of you, that’s okay, _if_ the angle of the sculls behind you is smaller still. Parallel is best, though.” I watch them shuffle for a bit until they’re satisfied – until I am, too. 

“Alright, then, on my mark. Ellie, just set a pace you feel comfortable with.” My grin is wide enough to swallow one of those blades whole, by now. “Ready all… row.”

She goes slowly, probingly, and a good thing too. “Alright, everyone, just concentrate on how the strength goes from your back and legs to the water, at first. No need to put in the blades so deeply, barely covered will do. Remember your wrists, and keep your hands level – that’s it.” Leg stroke first. Arm stroke will follow when they have it worked out. “If turning the blades is too difficult at first, just leave the blades vertical, other things are more important,” I go on, for everyone’s sake but Seven’s. Number four’s technique is spotless, of course, but she’s having difficulties adapting to Ellie’s pace, and I’d known beforehand that her stroke length would be longer than the other’s. She does have that bit more height, after all. Well, as I said, tough luck. Then something else catches my eye. “Back straight, B’Elanna, or you’ll hurt it.”

“But I get more power to the water that way,” she flares, even though I’d kept my voice calm.

“At the cost of ruining your spine, yes. Even though you’re part of the engine room, that bit of power isn’t needed. Trust me, and sit up. Lock your shoulders and let your back and legs do the work, then add in your arm power later. That’s it.” Ellie, right in front of B’Elanna, is doing it, too, or has done. Now they’re both coming along nicely. There’s something else, though.

“Ellie, try and make the forward slide slower, rounder. That’s better. Fall in, everyone – that means follow the new rhythm.” I’m rolling with the strokes, now, as _Artemis_ slowly picks up speed. The wind is even pushing the hair from my face. Bless them, for agreeing to this. God, but I’ve missed it – not rowing, but coaching. Amazing, too, how quickly they’re finding their beat, but a good stroke, a good team, will do that.

“Now,” I go on. “You’re doing fine, rhythm-wise, all of you. Keep going until it feels natural, remember your thumbs, remember your wrists.” We row in silence for a few strokes until I can see them relaxing into it. “Now, think of the strength in your arms. Bring that strength to bear more sharply, with more pressure. It’ll change the rhythm of the stroke slightly – noticing already, aren’t you? That’s it. Ellie’s still setting the pace, all; fall in!” Again, I have to wait for a bit, but then it clicks, and _Artemis’_ sudden leap almost has me take a step backwards to catch myself. _Yes_. The smile on my face is almost feral.

“Way to go, everyone. Feel how she runs! Wrists, Kathryn – or you’ll have to explain to the Doctor why you can’t move your hands, tomorrow.” She grins toothily at me, enjoying herself far too much to complain. Who’d have thought it? I had counted on her to give me grief about the placing, but she seems content with her role in the engine room, at least for today. Interesting. The placing is just as much about team work and roles, after all, as it is about the strengths and advantages I’ve numbered when I’ve placed them. “Ellie, if you want to, pick up the pace a bit.” I wait until they’re settled, then call, “comfortable, all?” to a chorus of ayes. Oh, but I love this. 

“Alright, everybody, next we’ll work on the speed without quickening pace. I want power strokes, more pressure from your muscles to the blades. Ten of them on my mark, and when we’re done, we’ll let _Artemis_ run, which means you go to ready position and keep your blades out of the water, parallel to its surface, so that she glides freely. Understood?” Another round of ayes, and I nod, sitting down. “In two – one – mark!”

It’s Kathryn who catches the crab. I’d figured it would happen when we came to power strokes (which is why I’d sat down), but I hadn’t been certain who’d be the one. We wobble mightily as oar hits oar, and Ellie, white-faced, clings to hers as if they were life buoys. I get up again when the boat’s stopped rocking.

“That, everybody,” I grin, “was a crab. That’s crab with a b, not a p, though. Happens to the best of them, off and on. It’s the wrist movement, or timing, or sometimes just a wave of water. It happens, is what I’m saying. Now, off we go, nice and easy again, Ellie. Ready all,” I wait for them, all of them, to meet my eyes, “row.

“Let’s try again, then,” I tell them when confidence is back in their motions, sitting back down. “In two, power ten. Two. One. Mark.” This time, the surge of the boat is even more powerful. Yes. They’re great, the four of them. Reveling in how smoothly we run, I count down the last strokes. “Three. Two. One. Let her run, girls, and hear her keel sing.” And it does indeed, and we’re not even wobbling that much. It’s Seven who gets the most of it, seated in the bow as she is, but the sound of water bubbling and surging beneath _Artemis’_ keel carries all the way to me, and I love every moment of it. Ellie’s smile, right opposite me, is a gift from heaven, just like the sunshine it rivals. _Gotcha_. Next time I’ll have her steer, just to feel the surge, that breath-taking moment when four rowers find their harmony.

Our first turn is reminiscent of a drunken octopus, but we manage. Going with the river’s current makes for even faster rowing, and we repeat the ‘power ten and let her run’ routine two more times before we pass the jetty. Ellie and B’Elanna are proud new owners of a crab each, too, but each time, they’ve caught themselves faster. The second turn goes more smoothly, as well, and – well. Landing has ever been my forte. _Artemis_ pulls into the jetty sweetly, and my last lesson for them is how to disembark in an orderly and professional fashion. I’m looking quite sternly at them, too, but it does take three repeats until I’m satisfied. 

I suppose it earns me what comes next. 

“I have researched rowing customs,” Seven declares, suddenly. “From what I understand, it’s traditional to toss the coxswain into the water after a successful run.” 

I’m running before she even completes the word ‘toss’, but to no avail. And my greater height and reach, not to mention bulk, is no match for four women; one Borg, one half-Klingon, one starship captain, one best friend; determined in the name of tradition. I never lose my grin, though, not even when I hit the water.


	5. House call #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set right at the end of my story "Home".

“Captain!” Tom’s voice is raised over the cries of an obviously healthy, obviously displeased quarter-Klingon infant, but his grin as he opens the door to the quarters he shares with his wife seems fit to split his head. “Marie! Come on in – good to see the both of you. We’re trying to get our daughter to sleep at the moment. It hasn’t quite worked so far, as you can see.”

That quickly, Marie’s standing at B’Elanna’s side next to the cot, takes one look at the helplessly staring mother, another at the wailing, softly kicking bundle, not even half a day old, and apparently reaches a decision. “What have you tried so far?”

“Feeding, burping, change of diapers,” B’Elanna sighs, hands at her hairline. “Nothing seems to work, and I don’t want to go running for the doctor just hours after birth.”

“Oh, I understand completely,” Marie grins conspiratorially. “Did you try walking around with her for a bit?” 

“We did. Tom started, then I took her, then Tom took her again when my arms grew heavy…”

“Singing?”

“Not all of us have your talent, Marie,” Tom laughs from Kathryn’s side. 

Marie goes through a whole list of things, finally asking B’Elanna to try and nurse Miral again, to see whether something was wrong with that process.

“She’s beautiful, Tom,” Kathryn tells him when the two find themselves left behind in the Paris’ living room.

“Of course she is,” Tom gives back easily, “just as her mother.”

“Well, she does have your chin, though, doesn’t she?”

“Just as long as she doesn’t have his knack for getting into trouble,” B’Elanna calls from next door. 

Tom stifles a yawn and steps to the replicator. “Two cups of coffee, black, Janeway blend three, one raktajino, extra strong, extra sweet.” Then he raises his voice. “Marie?”

“Fruit punch number eighteen, please,” Marie sings out. 

This baffles the captain. “Eighteen?” she calls through Tom’s orders to the replicator.

“Special occasion, isn’t it?” 

“I hadn’t known there were eighteen fruit punches in the data bases, is all,” Kathryn answers while Tom takes the cups and glass and puts them on the table. 

“You’re kidding, right?” the answer flies back. “I mean, seeing as there are about a hundred sorts of fruit juices in there, the combinations are practically endless, Kathryn.” This should, by rights, feel completely disorderly and not like something a starship captain should engage in. Here they are, having a shouted conversation about non-alcoholic drinks across two rooms and a still-yelling baby, but Kathryn can’t help feeling reminded of girls nights in Cologne, for some reason. Doesn’t help that Marie’s drink has more colored layers than any drink should, in Kathryn’s opinion. A paper umbrella, too. “But, Tom – coffee?” the young woman goes on. “Why not champagne?”

“Well, Marie, you see B’Elanna has been off the raktajino for months now. We can go ahead and order champagne after this if you want to, but…” Tom cocks his head and takes a sip of his own cup, “right now I wouldn’t want to offer my wife anything else but this.” 

Kathryn mirrors his action, just to hide her smile. “I always thought there were inhibitors? My sister used to talk about them.”

“There are. Tor human coffee,” Tom says dryly, “but this is Klingon stuff we’re talking about. Too much caffeine to battle with a puny hypospray.”

“Good grief.” Kathryn grins openly at the idea. Truth to tell, she feels like taking on a hundred Klingons with a puny hypospray – they’re back, she’s faced down four admirals, and B’Elanna’s and Tom’s daughter has arrived safely along with them. The only real worry – apart from the, oh, just about seven tons of paperwork – will be to determine where exactly Miral was born; Alpha Quadrant or Delta. As of now, her certificate states _USS Voyager, NCC-74656_ , which isn’t all that bad, is it? 

B’Elanna appears in the doorway, throws a last backwards glance, then grimaces and grabs her cup for a long, loving, indulgent swill. “God, this is good.” B’Elanna slowly opens her eyes again, then sighs at a renewed wail from next door. “This will take a minute, I’m afraid. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Robust pair of lungs, hasn’t she.” Kathryn’s voice is dry, but, truth to tell, she’d have no idea what to do with a fussy baby. None at all.

“First thing I’ll redesign is the soundproofing on starships,” Tom answers with one of his cheekier smiles. “I’ve heard that there have been requests.”

“Oh, you have, have you?” 

He wisely refrains from commenting, then Miral seems to double her volume and he blows out a breath. “B’Elanna, do you need help over there?”

“We’re on it,” Marie answers, and indeed, Miral’s latest cry ends in a funny little hiccup. 

“Can we keep her?” Tom asks his captain imploringly. “We might need whatever magic she’s just worked.”

“Well, Mister Paris,” and now it’s Kathryn’s turn to drawl, “why don’t you tell me your plans and then I’ll tell you our plans and then we’ll have a look at whether we can come to an agreement regarding the use of my partner’s child-soothing abilities.” 

“What makes you think it’s been some special talent of mine?” Marie asks, returning to the living room to judge by the sound of her voice. 

“I know about your soothing qualities, see,” Kathryn answers without turning around.

“That, and the fact that my daughter is asleep on your arm,” Tom says, awe-struck.

“Oh, she’s not asleep,” Marie chuckles when Kathryn’s head snaps round. “But I do have a few tricks up my sleeve, true enough.” A few gently rocking steps bring her fully into the living room, B’Elanna on her heels and Miral face down in the crook of one incredibly expert-looking arm, hand curled around one baby leg. “B’Elanna and I just implemented one of them, that’s all.” She begins a slow, swaying circuit of the room, humming to Miral under her breath, while B’Elanna returns to her raktajino.

“You’re being mysterious on purpose, right?” Tom moans. “It’s gonna be your fault, Marie, when I carry Miral around next and she won’t fall asleep because you didn’t let me in on your secrets.”

“We burped her.”

“But we tried that!” He sounds incredulous.

“Apparently,” B’Elanna tells him, “sometimes a burp simply won’t come out. This time, rolling her onto her stomach has worked.” 

Her answer seems to mollify her husband a little. “How come you know all this, anyway, Marie?”

“One of my best friends was a midwife. Anna,” Marie tells Kathryn, who opens her eyes wide in surprise. “And you wouldn’t believe how nervous she was when she had her own baby girl home. Good education for all of us, really.” Oh, Kathryn remembers some of the table talk back then. It had been about the usual accomplishments of a girl of six, hadn’t it? And the answer is, apparently, sufficient – no talk about sitting up all night with frightened women this time, although Kathryn would bet good money that working in a women’s refuge has taught Marie quite a lot about handling a baby, too.

“We brought a little something, by the way,” she tries to steer the conversation somewhere else while Marie resumes walking and humming. “Well, two little somethings.” Kathryn indicates the parcels she’s laid on the tea table, one soft and flat, one tall and round. 

“We thought we could share one of them at an appropriate moment,” Marie cuts in, then grins wickedly, “I’m sure you’ll figure out which one, too.”

“Thank you. Uh…” Tom meets his wife’s eyes, then looks down at his fingers. Then he scratches the back of his head. Kathryn is certain he’s blushing, and for a short moment, she wonders why, but when he gets up abruptly and comes around the table to pull her up and _hug_ her, she’s almost too surprised to return his embrace. “Thank you, Captain.” His voice is hoarse. He holds her for a little longer than strictly necessary, and Kathryn knows it’s not just a blanket or a bottle of wine he’s grateful for. Still – his ears burn when he steps back, and he escapes her scrutiny by walking over to hug Marie, too, who grins merrily at Kathryn over his shoulder, fully aware of what has just transpired.

“Stop it, Tom, or you’ll get into trouble with your wife,” she tells him after another moment of this, pushing him away with the hand that’s not holding his daughter. 

“Not at all,” B’Elanna answers, “that wife of his is about to repeat her husband’s actions.” And she does. Fiercely.

Tom stands back and watches them, and, to judge by the way the color never leaves his cheeks, there’s something else on his mind, something he wants to get over quickly, too. “Uh, Captain, I, that is, we…” again, his hand is at his neck. 

“Out with it, Lieutenant.” Long years of captaincy help Kathryn not to smile and push him in deeper. 

“Well, it’s… kinda… personal, you know.” He looks back at B’Elanna as if hoping his wife would save him from Kathryn’s eyebrow. Marie, mugging wildly behind his back, is not helping Kathryn’s effort to stay poker-faced, either. “We were hoping that… uh…”

“Kahless’ bloody bath’let, Tom, _will_ you get it over with?” B’Elanna growls, setting down her cup sharply. “You said you wanted to ask, but if you continue this way, I guess I’ll have to do _that_ myself, too.”

“I’m getting to it, okay?” His blue eyes return to Kathryn’s face, above a rueful smile. “What I’m trying to say is that we want to… uh… name her Kathryn. Miral Kathryn Paris,” he adds quickly, never losing his blush. “If you’d be okay with it, that is.”

“Tom…” Kathryn hasn’t anticipated this. And she’s glad that Marie is simply looking at her, eyes soft with wonder and pride, instead of bursting out with a reaction of her own. Tom has never looked so vulnerable, so much like the little boy of six she remembers meeting once. “I’d be honored. You know, you sure know how to surprise people.” She feels weak. Too much, something whispers in her thoughts, too much, too fast. She grits her teeth, but it doesn’t really help.

“You know…” Marie’s voice is hesitant, thoughtful, and completely innocent. Enough so, at least, to warrant a sharp look, which does help. “I’d wager that, in two years’ time, there will be at least… mmmh… ten babies in the _Voyager_ family with either Kathryn, or Chakotay, or a variant thereof in their birth certificates.” She grins at Kathryn, a wide, completely irreverent grin.

Thomas Eugene Paris easily matches it. “You’re on.”


End file.
